Sunshine
by Storm Midnight
Summary: It all started with the cold. Ivan Braginski, personification of Russia, was slowly loosing the battle for his waking sanity. Rochu.


**Hi everyone! Ugh, this was posted waaaaay later than it was supposed to... This is what happenes when I read depressing fanfiction and listen to Russia's characters songs at the same time. I find the dark, physological part of Russia very interesting to write about, plus it gave be a chance to experiment with stream of conciousness (although very, very briefly)**

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><p><strong>Sunshine<strong>

It all started with the cold.

Chilling.

Numbing.

He tried to ignore it, pulling his scarf tight and jacket close.

Please... Not here...

Not now...

England was in the middle of a presentation on the world economy. In the middle of a meeting.

The claws of the cold snaked through his hair, and began to crawl down his spine. His normally wayward smile faltered for a mere moment. The nation on his left leaned towards him, albeit slightly.

"...Ivan? Are you okay, aru?"

China.

Nothing escaped his notice.

_"Da_, I am fine..." Icicles crept into his blood, freezing his muscles into place. No... He would fight this time... He tried to think of warm things.

Warm things, like vodka and sunshine and Yao's smile...

What?

Why would he think of that last one?

The confusion broke his resolve, and the cold spread further, chaining his chest to the chair. His breath caught strangely in the back his throat.

"Are you sure you're alright, aru?" The Asian nation was now taking notes on England's presentation. He asked the question offhandedly, but there still was genuine concern in his voice.

_"D-Da..."_

The cold was now controlling his movements. One hand slipped into his jacket and felt the handle of his faucet pipe, his trusty companion. He forced himself to stop and withdraw the hand.

No...

Not here...

Not now...

Not with Yao so close...

Wait... What?

Why does his location matter?

Again focus was lost and the cold progressed. It covered him tautly like a second skin. Slowly it encroached further upon his senses, obscuring his ears and mouth.

Ivan Braginski, personification of Russia, was slowly losing the battle for his waking sanity. It continued to consume... Covering his eyes... Thickening...

The icy arms of Winter embraced him, and then the chaos reigned.

xxxxx

The first thing everyone became aware of was the sudden drop in temperature. Several complaints arose as nations huddled together and as jackets were retrieved from the backs of chairs. A couple stern words from Germany brought the meeting back to order and England continued his presentation.

The second thing was an intense sense of dread began to permeate the room. Hair-raising, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping dread. The kind of dread you felt when you knew you were faced with interment doom. Everyone became quiet, everything became still. Very softly from the one end of the meeting table came a solitary sound. It stared slowly... Softly... Then grew to a hoarse growl.

"Kol... Kol... Kol... _KOLKOLKOLKOLKOL!"_

The countries closest to him shot backwards, scrambling over their chairs to get away from him. Slowly he stood up and whipped out his pipe. Terror was written on every face, and it didn't help that Russia's was seated closest to the door. He took a step backwards, emphasizing this point. He held his pipe gently, examining it for a few moments. His eyes snapped to his first target, hollowed orbs of madness bore into innocent blue ones. The boy seemed to hover in and out of his vision, and was clutching a white bear. Poor thing was too scared to move.

Ivan smiled.

With lighting speed the Russian was beside the boy and the pipe was slammed into his side. The resounding crack of bones as the boy flew was simply delightful, earning a small giggle from the attacker.

There was a scream of agony, another of fear, and then all hell broke loose.

Nations were running towards the door, but Russia managed to get ahead of the panicked mass, and with a grand swing of his weapon several more fell. Their cries of pain were music to his ears. The rest, except for a few, pressed into a far corner, screaming and crying and terrified. A man in blue pulled a gun, shrieking in a language Russia could not understand. But amongst the garble he distinctively heard that boy's name.

Vengeance makes the heart grow bold, for now one would have dared pulled the trigger like that Frenchman did.

The faucet was flicked and the bullet was deflected into another screaming nation. Wasn't he just speaking earlier? The small spout of red on green looked wondrous. With another flick of the wrist the man in blue was launched across the room and onto the table. The man was broken like that boy, but both were still alive.

Ivan would need to fix that later.

With an amused hum he turned toward the shot Briton. He was on the ground clutching his leg, which was now enveloped in a cascade of red. Green eyes filled with terror as Ivan approached. The faucet was raised.

A flash of white stopped him. There was a man with a sword? It held his pipe at bay, but not for long. With an irritated grunt Russia lunged forth, swinging the pipe with one hand and striking with the other. The smaller Asian nation crumpled, unable to defend against the twofold attack.

The green man tried to quickly crawl away, but that would not be tolerated. Russia brought his pipe down on the back of the already injured leg, earning an agonized wail. He let out another amused hum and he walked forward and seized the Englishman by the hair, yanking him to his knees. He leaned down to his captive's ear,

You will show everyone what happens when one tries to run, _da?_

Another gunshot and a stiffening sensation went through his arm. The Russian saw a small bullet hole in his shoulder. The cold had frozen his blood, his nerves. He felt no pain.

His eyebrows knitted together in mild concern. He turned to the source of the bullet. Another boy, he looked like the one with bear... But stronger, fiercer. Again shouting in a language that the Russian didn't immediately recognize. English? Was that American yelling at him?

Let... Him... Go...?

The Briton thrashed in response, but Russia's fingers were firmly knotted within that blonde hair. Those fingers yanked the head back sharply. A warning. The American was yelling again. Calling Russia mean names.

In that moment the Russian slammed the pipe into his captive's shoulder, the same shoulder he himself was shot in. Consider it payback. His tight grip forced the green man to take the full force of the blow, screaming in agony. Through the vibrations of the pipe Russia felt the man's shoulder blade and arm shatter like glass.

That irksome American screamed in fury. A pleased grin graced Ivan's face as he finally released the Englishman, who fell to the ground face first, writhing in pain. Russia kicked him sharply, flipping him onto his back. This man wore too much green... The Russian raised the pipe, intending to fix that.

Another gunshot.

Easily dodged.

The grin turned into a small pout as he decided to carefully place the heel of his boot to that whimpering throat instead. He turned towards the American, who was now seething with rage. Russia's face morphed into a soft smile as his foot slowly applied pressure. After a few moments his expression became bored, American's horrified face and the gasping of the Briton had gotten very old very quickly. His heel pressed harder.

Perhaps I should just end you now, _da?_

Something collided with the Russian, sending him staggering back a few steps. It upset him, causing him to let out a small whine.

This boy needed to learn his place.

Violet eyes hardened as he brandished his trusty weapon. The American took a step forward.

Big mistake.

With a grand burst of speed Russia lunged forth, catching his opponent across the chest with the pipe. Without hesitation he struck again.

And again.

And again.

With each strike that boy was knocked further and further back, and Ivan continued his advance. More gunshots, more wasted bullets. The faucet struck every available place on the American. Everywhere except his head. He didn't need to die... Yet.

He had upset Russia.

He was being taught a lesson.

Another hit and the boy was on the ground. Yet another and he began to cough up blood. Beautiful splashes of red stained his clothes and the floor around him. The Russian moved ever closer to the American, leaving the door unguarded and facilitating a mass exodus.

That was okay. He would just hunt them all down in the end.

No one escaped Russia.

Again and again the faucet fell, seeking the fracture of every bone in the boy's body. Incapable of moving by that point, the American was graciously splattered with his own blood. The boy foolishly took the beating, believing that he was saving everyone else. He closed his eyes and did not give in to the pain.

And that made Russia downright furious.

The weapon was slowly raised high. The interlude caused the American to open his eyes, curious as to why Ivan had paused. Like some great battering ram the faucet came down, wanting so desperately to bash that rebellious face in.

_"IVAN!"_

The voice cut through to his consciousness. He paused in mid-strike.

That voice... It was familiar...

Something... Warm?

The cold snarled in protest and shut such thoughts away. He continued the final blow, but the clang of pipe on metal stopped him yet again.

A ladle?

He was being stopped by a _ladle?_

With a fierce growl Russia pivoted and attacked the ladle-wielder. Again there a loud clang as the weapon encountered what appeared to be a large black bowl. A shield?

The bowl-shield would not yield to his strikes. Harsh insults in his native tongue fell from Ivan's lips. He demanded that the ladle-wielder face him.

A smaller man appeared from behind the black shield, complying with the request. He wore dark green and had brown hair drawn into a ponytail. He was pleading with Russia, but the cold would not let him listen. How strange this man was, ending all of his sentences with an odd verbal tic. Russia tilted his head in confusion.

Why was this man so familiar?

Again the cold did not let his pursue that thought.

The voice was soft yet chiding, and that small man was clearly afraid of him. He moved to hold both of his weapons to the same hand and took a step closer to Ivan. Calming words that that cold would not let the Russian comprehend flowed from the small man. Carefully a hand placed itself on top of the faucet pipe, and gently began to tug it away.

**No.**

Russia yanked it away and took a step back, shaking his head violently. The strange man's voice shook as he continued to try and sooth the Russian.

He tried to take away Ivan's pipe.

He needed to be punished.

Sensing Russia's anger, that strange man quickly jumped to the side as he charged forth. A skillful game of evasion commenced, with that man gracefully hopping around the room like he was doing some strange dance. Several chairs were smashed, and the table was broken in two.

The Frenchman was gone.

Ivan hesitated for a moment, looking around the room.

No one was there except for him and that strange man.

The broken ones had escaped.

Letting out a cry of rage the Russian's barrage continued, increasing in speed and power. The strange man became a blur as he dodged elegantly, like he anticipated every strike. And whenever he could not move fast enough that bowl would be in the way.

Ivan's patience was wearing thin.

He searched for a way to remove that tiresome obstacle. He regarded his target with a strange sort of distaste and enchantment. The sight of this man in combat was both utterly foreign and strangely familiar.

The attacks began pinpointing the handles of that giant bowl, trying to knock it out of those strange hands. Eventually the tip of the faucet hooked one of those handles, and with an almighty yank the black bowl was discarded. With another grand swing the ladle was knocked out of the other hand. The strange man clutched one hand within the other, in obvious pain.

Some of that pain appealed to Russia's heart and for a moment it beat with sympathy. He pitied the smaller man. The cold quickly froze the vital organ and erased that thought as the Russian was forced to raise his pipe once more. That man moved even faster now, the excess weigh of his weapons lifted. His movements were like water, flowing from one position into another. Ivan would try to knock those lithe legs out from under their owner, but his prey would flip and land lightly a few feet away. He floated through the air like snow in the wind. Every movement was fluid.

Flawless.

All this time the man was pleading with Russia. Begging him to stop. He kept stating that it was him, it was... The cold would not let him hear the name. The strange man kept trying to reason with him, but the cold did not let Ivan listen. One particular strike, aimed above his knees, forced that strange man to execute a back-hand spring. He made the mistake of using his injured hand. He slipped but still managed to land in a squatting position. The Russian saw that golden opportunity and drove the faucet downward towards the head of his goal.

The strange man shot upward, both of his hands catching the pipe.

Halting it.

His arms shook violently as he gritted his teeth. Tears of agony began to fall from tightly closed eyes and slid down his cheeks. The position was held for a few seconds before the small man released the weapon and fell to his knees. His entire body shook as he slowly folded his arms up against his chest, with his hands over his heart.

Ivan smiled.

Taking the pipe firmly in both hands, he prepared for a blow that would hopefully, _finally_ kill.

_"You are my sunshine."_

Ivan froze, but it was not from the cold.

_"My only sunshine."_

That man... That strange man... Was singing?

_"You make me happy, when skies are grey."_

That voice... It finally reached the Russian's ears.

_"You'll never know dear, how much I love you."_

It was so familiar.

_"Please don't take my sunshine away."_

So warm.

_"The other night, dear, while I was sleeping, I dreamt I held you, here in my arms."_

Carefully, shaking madly, those hands wrapped around his shoulders, hugging himself.

_"But I awoke, dear, and was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried."_

He was making an effort to swallow the verbal tic he displayed earlier, and after that verse he let out a small sob.

Ivan was mesmerized by that beautiful voice, it brought back memories.

It brought back warmth.

_"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine."_

It started with the sunshine.

Thawing.

Reviving.

_"You make me happy, when skies are grey."_

With a jolt everything began to come back to him, and with a clatter his pipe fell to the floor.

...What had he done...?

All those terror filled faces swam before the Russian's eyes, and he recognized all but one.

All but the one in front of him.

Pained amber eyes locked with tepid purple, and the faintest hue of pink graced the smaller man's face. Streams of sorrow continued to flow freely from those warmly colored eyes. Still he sang.

_"You'll never know dear, how much I..."_

The voice faltered. The line came so easily before, but now as he stared into Ivan's eyes he found himself unable to continue. The Russian tilted his head, confused as to why the song had stopped. He nodded slowly, urging his companion to continue.

_"...How much I love you..."_

When the words were whispered, they held true meaning. The stream became a shameful river as amber eyes shut themselves away once more. He suddenly wished that he hadn't resisted fate, and just have let the pipe kill him. Death would have been preferable than to face this sudden truth. That was why he had decided to come back after the others had fled, why he had chosen to defend rather than fight.

Footsteps.

Closer and closer.

A loud thud, someone dropping to their knees.

Arms wrapped around the small body. Strong, yet gentle.

And they both felt warmth.

"Yao..." Russia breathed softly.

Broken hands forced themselves to clutch the back of Ivan's coat, and China noted with panic that one of those shoulders was sticky with blood. The Russian ignored it.

He then grabbed Yao's shoulders and gently pushed him away, causing his hands to fall into their laps. The Russian carefully grabbed one and slowly began to work the bones back into place. It was a slow and painful process, but as one fragment was popped into place a light kiss was brushed over it. The same treatment was given to the other hand. They were still broken but as least it would ease the healing process.

_"So don't you take my sunshine away."_

At first Yao's voice had startled him, but Ivan's face quickly mirrored the small smile he had received.

Although tiny, it was unmistakably beautiful.

The Russian stood up, feeling a bit lightheaded. He shook it off and gently grabbed China by one of his forearms, helping him up as well. Suddenly Ivan staggered, the lightheadedness became stronger, and the back of his shoulder felt wet.

That bullet wound had soaked through his jacket and the layers of material underneath. He took a moment to look around the room, and to his surprise there was a small trail of blood. Had he been bleeding this entire time? It was much heavier than he thought it would ever be. His dearest comrade was shouting something, ending it with a distressed, "Aru!"

But the Russian was too tired to understand it.

He grabbed China by the shoulders once more to steady himself. Those wondrous sun-colored eyes reflected fear and concern. Without thinking Ivan clumsily pressed his lips to Yao's for a brief moment before letting him go and swaying dangerously from the blood lost.

_"...Спасибо..."_

Thank you.

A sense of coldness gripped him again as he fell, but it was different than the insanity that possessed him. Regardless, he would try and fight it. He would try and think of warm things.

Warm things, like vodka and sunshine and Yao's beautiful smile.

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><p><strong>I have no clue where the RoChu came from, to be honest. But I'm very please with how this turned out! Please review and author alert me! I plan on rolling out a few more Hetalia stories soon!<strong>


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